JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 


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BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRA RT 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS, 


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James  Clarence  Mangan. 


[Sept. 


formulas  of  Bible  and  creed.  He  could  quicken  them  into 
rivalry 'with  the  youths  whom  the  Homan  Church  was  training 
by  a similar  though  different  process,  for  “ the  evangeliza- 
tion ” of  the  Great  Valley  of  our  land.  But  when  the  scholars 
of  Lane  Seminary  set  up  for  a company  of  antislavery  Pro- 
testants and  champions,  in  vain  did  the  professors  set  up 
their  discipline.  The  Seminary  halls  were  vacated,  and  the 
cage  was  emptied.  Dr.  Beecher  had  one  son,  whose  bold 
speculations  led  him,  though  happily  not  past  the  reclaiming, 
into  godless  realms.  There  are  thousands  of  our  yotrth  who 
are  daring  the  same  ventures  now.  But  Calvinism  will  never 
bring  them  back. 

After  a period  of  faithful  and  fruitful  labor  at  the  West,  the 
venerable  man,  drawing  reverencV  and  love  wherever  he* 
went,  returned  for  a while  to  Boston,  and  thence  removed  to 
Brooklyn,  where  he  died  in  his  eighty-eighth  year. 


Art.  III.  — JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 

Poems  by  James  Clarence  Mangan.  With  a Biographical  Introduc- 
tion, by  John  Mitchell.  New  York  : P.  M.  Haverty.  1859. 

The  volume  which  gives  the  subject  to  this  article  is  one  of 
the  saddest  in  the  history  of  literature,  which  it  was  ever  our 
fortune  to  meet,  even  among  the  dark  pages  of  the  lives  of 
those  “ who  learn  in  suffering.” 

We  shall  first  give  a brief  sketch  of  the  life  of  the  unhappy 
being  called  James  Clarence  Mangan,  and  afterward  offer  a 
few  remarks  with  specimens  of  his  poems.  The  only  record, 
except  a very  brief  notice  in  Daly’s  “ Poets  and  Poetry  of 
Munster,”  which  we  find,  is  the  sketch  in  the  volume  before 
us,  where  the  illustrious  exile,  now  in  Fortress  Monroe,  ex- 
patiates upon  his  own  wrongs  and  the  tyranny  of  the  Saxon 
oppressor,  in  the  style  of  which  we  had  such  choice  speci- 
mens, for  the  last  four  years,  in  the  columns  of  the  “ Richmond 


r 


1865.] 


Lyman  Beecher . 


199 


The  Bible  is  not  the  book  which  Calvinism  represents  it  to 
be,  and  once  heartily  believed  it  to  be.  The  way  of  dealing 
with  the  Bible,  which  would  draw  Calvinism  and  authenti- 
cate Calvinism  from  it  and  by  it,  is  now  known  not  to  be 
the  honest  or  intelligent  way  of  dealing  with  it.  The  phe- 
nomena of  infancy,  and  of  the  first  developments  of  character 
in  Christian  “households,  were  the  severest  perplexities  under 
which  Dr.  Beecher  attempted  a re-adjustment  of  the  tenets 
of  the  system  which  he  accepted.  He  did  not  venture  upon 
the  broader  fields,  of  the  philosophy  of  human  nature,  even 
to  the  extent  to  which  his  daughter  has,  with  an  able  pen, 
traversed  some  of  them.  Dr.  Chalmers  set  himself  with  much 
of  his  zeal,  and  with  all  his  rhetoric,  to  attempt  a reconcilia- 
tion between  the  dogmas  of  Calvinism,  and  the  inferences 
drawn  from  the  revelations  made  by  the  telescope,  of  the  mul- 
titude of  worlds  to  be  cared  for  by  God,  and  of  the  multitude 
of  souls  upon  them — if  they  are  inhabited  by  intelligent  beings 
who  have  sinned- — to  be  reconciled  in  the  one  only  way,  — 
by  the  offer  of  an  infinite  sacrifice.  But  the  extent  and  char- 
acter and  other  phenomena  of  population  of  this  single  globe 
offer  facts  and  raise  questions  which  utterly  confound  Calvin- 
ism. Calvinism  evidently  never  contemplated  the  actual 
phenomena  of  what  it  called  Heathenism.  It  was  wrought 
out  arid  formulized  under  wholly  different  views  and  aspects 
of  things  human  and  divine,  than  are  now  most  positively  cer- 
tified to  the  average  intelligence  of  our  time. 

Dr.  Beecher  seems  to  have  been  wholly  oblivious,  or 
even  happily  unconscious,  of  all  the  results  of  the  sub-soil 
ploughing  which  has  penetrated  far  beneath  the  surface-fields 
which  he  tilled,  hoping  to  get  from  them  their  old  crops. 
Not  a single  intimation  do  we  gather  from  all  his  writings  of 
any  apprehension  on  his  part  of  the  real  drift  of  the  age  which 
presented  unmistakable  tokens  of  itself  all  around  him.  He 
could  take  the  crude  material  offered  to  him  in  the  piously 
inclined  young  men  to  whom  the  zeal  and  charity  of  the  East 
had  opened  a Theological  Seminary  in  the  West,  with  free 
maintenance  and  education ; and  he,  with  his  colleagues, 
could  train  them  by  the  literalisms  of  the  old,  unquestioned 


1865.]  James  Clarence  Mangan.  201 

Enquirer.”  Unfortunately,  Mangan,  a dreamer  of  dreams, 
had  altogether  too  little  knowledge  of  the  world  to  penetrate 
the  bombast  and  futility  of  the  schemes  of  the  young  Inland- 
ers ; and,  without  doubt,  his  regard  for  Mitchell  was  only  as 
the  noisiest  and  most  prominent  seemed  to  his  dimmed  eyes 
the  greatest.  His  letter  to  Mitchell,  when  the  latter  was 
under  prosecution,  was  honorable  to  his  feelings,  if  not  to  his 
discernment ; and  we  must  remember,  that  many  others  were 
under  the  same  generous  delusion  at  the  time. 

James  Clarence  Mangan  was  born  in  1803,  in  an  obscure 
hamlet  called  Shanagolden,  in  Limerick  County,  Ireland.  Of 
his  parents,  it  is  only  known,  that  his  father,  James  Mangan, 
was  a grocer,  unfortunate  in  business  ; and  that  he  died  while 
his  son  was  yet  young.  His  mother,  whose  maiden  name 
was  Catherine  Smith,  removed,  after  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, to  the  place  of  her  nativity,  Dublin,  and  lived  in  what 
would  here  be  called  abject  poverty,  but  which  the  u deeper 
deep  ” of  utter  destitution  and  starvation  of  Irish  poverty 
leaves  several  degrees  higher  in  the  scale  of  society.  Of  the 
early  life  of  Mangan,  no  tangible  record  remains,  save  that  he 
attended  school,  for  a short  time,  in  an  obscure  alley  of  Dub- 
lin, known  as  Derby  Square ; and  that,  for  seven  years  or 
more,  he  was  a copying  clerk  in  a scrivener’s  office,  earning 
just  shillings  enough  to  support  the  mother  and  sister  de- 
pendent on  him.  The  office,  or  the  name  of  his  master,  is  not 
known  ; but  he  ever  after,  when  mentioning  the  life  he  then 
led,  expressed  the  utmost  sense  of  loathing  and  detestation, 
which  his  gentle  nature  would  allow.  After  he  left  the  scriv- 
ener’s office,  there  is  a gap  of  several  years  in  the  record  of 
his  life,  in  which  it  is  not  known  how  he  lived  and  fared. 
The  story  is,  that  by  some  chance,  and  the  privilege  of  his 
acquirements,  — when  or  how  got,  with  his  means  and  his 
life,  is  beyond  conjecture,  — he  was  admitted  to  the  society  of 
a family  far  above  him  in  wealth  and  station,  in  which  there 
were  three  highly  accomplished  and  beautiful  sisters : with 

one  of  these,  Frances , encouraged  or  not,  he  had  the 

presumption  to  fall  in  love.  By  the  rude  shock  by  which  his 
tender  spirit  was  awakened  from  his  dream,  his  whole  soul 


202  James  Clarence  Mangan . [Sept. 

was  unhinged.  He  fled  to  opium  and  whiskey  for  relief,  and, 
as  we  have  said,  for  several  years  hid  himself  from  the  eyes 
of  all  his  friends.  During  this  time,  it  is  not  probable  that 
he  was  absent  from  Dublin.  Indeed,  it  may  be  doubted, 
whether  he  ever  saw  more  of  a mountain  than  the  Wicklow 
Hills,  or  knew  the  features  of  his  native  land,  save  in  the 
pictures  of  Maclise.  During  all  this  time,  he  was  sunk  in 
helpless  debauchery  and  degradation,  in  the  lowest  slums  of 
Dublin,  in  the  companionship  of  the  vilest  of  the  human  spe- 
cies. Scarcely  a sentient  or  responsible  being,  he  was  as 
isolated  from  humanity,  as  if  on  a desert  island.  Like  that 
soul  which, 

“ Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 

Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 

Lost  to  her  place  and  name/^ 

the  history  of  literature  records  no  sadder  fall  or  more  inno- 
cent degradation.  When  he  re-appeared,  he  was  twenty- 
seven  years  of  age,  and  as  old  in  appearance  as  if  forty. 
The  clear  blue  eyes,  and  features  of  peculiar  delicacy, 
which  had  distinguished  his  youth,  remained ; but  his  coun- 
tenance was  pallid  and  worn,  like  that  of  a corpse,  and  his 
hair  prematurely  white,  presenting  almost  a bleached  ap- 
pearance. 

At  this  time  he  commenced  his  connection  with  literature, 
by  contributing  short  pieces,  chiefly  translations  from  the 
German  and  Irish,  to  an  obscure  magazine  in  Dublin.  His 
compensation  was  hardly  sufficient  to  supply  his  daily  allow- 
ance of  opium ; but  his  pieces,  by  their  peculiar  qualities, 
attracted  the  attention  of  several  literary  men  in  Dublin, 
among  them  Dr.  Anster,  author  of  “ Xeniola,”  and  one  of  the 
innumerable  translations  of  u Faust,”  Petrie  and  Dr.  Todd, 
librarian  of  Trinity  College.  He  was  sought  out,  and  by 
their  aid  employment  was  found  for  him,  in  the  preparation  of 
a new  catalogue  for  the  magnificent  library  of  the  College. 
He  was  thus  enabled  to  procure  a comfortable  subsistence  for 
his  mother  and  sister,  and  opium  for  himself.  The  following 
sketch  of  his  personal  appearance  at  that  time  is  given  by  his 
biographer : — 


1865.] 


James  Clarence  Mangan . 


203 


u Being  in  the  College  Library,  and  having  occasion  for  a book  in 
that  gloomy  apartment  known  as  the  ‘ Fagel  Library/  which  is  in 
the  innermost  recess  of  the  stately  building,  an  acquaintance  pointed 
out  to  me  a figure  perched  on  the  top  of  a ladder,  with  the  whispered 
information  that  the  figure  was  Clarence  Mangan.  It  was  an  un- 
earthly and  ghostly  figure,  in  a brown  garment,  — the  same  garment, 
to  all  appearance,  that  lasted  till  the  day  of  his  death.  The  blanched 
hair  was  totally  unkempt,  the  corpse-like  features  still  as  marble ; a 
large  book  was  in  his  arms,  and  all  his  soul  was  in  the  book.  I had 
never  heard  of  Clarence  Mangan  before,  and  knew  not  for  what  he 
was  celebrated,  whether  as  a magician,  a poet,  or  a murderer ; yet 
took  a volume  and  spread  it  on  a table,  not  to  read,  but  with  pretence 
of  reading,  to  gaze  on  the  spectral  creature  upon  the  ladder/’ 

The  story  of  the  remaining  years  of  his  life  may  be  briefly 
told.  He  contributed  to  various  magazines,  including  the 
“ Dublin  University/7  poems  and  translations,  giving  as  the  lat- 
ter some  of  his  own  grotesque  yet  beautiful  utterances.  His 
contributions  also  occasionally  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the 
“Nation/7  — although  his  personal  connection  with  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Young-Ireland  party  was  of  the  smallest, — where 
they  shine  like  arabesque  silver  ornaments  on  the  broad,  green 
fustian  banner  of  the  “ Begenerators.77  He  had  but  one  whom 
he  called  friend,  Joseph  Brennan,  to  whom  he  addressed  one 
of  his  most  touching  poems,  and  who,  shortly  after  the  death  of 
Mangan,  removed  to  this  country,  settled  in  New  Orleans, 
where  he  became  an  editor  of  the  u New  Orleans  Delta,77 
and  died  less  than  six  years  ago.  Dr.  Anster,  Petrie,  and 
others,  endeavored  to  no  purpose  to  reclaim  Mangan,  or  estab- 
lish some  personal  intercourse  with  him.  He  had  become  the 
slave  of  opium,  and  at  times  would  disappear  for  weeks,  avoid- 
ing all  decent  society,  and  holding  drunken  orgies  in  the 
lowest  pothouses,  in  the  company  of  beggars  and  ragamuffins, 
being  occasionally  found  senseless  in  the  gutters,  and  carried 
to  the  station-house.  His  appearance,  after  emerging  from 
these  sloughs  of  periodical  debauch,  was  more  like  a ghost 
than  a human  being.  At  last  the  end  came.  After  he  had 
been  missing  for  some  time,  word  was  brought  to  his  friends, 
that  he  was  lying  ill  in  an  obscure  house  in  Bride  Street. 


204  James  Clarence  Mangan,  [Sept. 

He  was  removed,  at  his  own  request,  to  the  Meath  Hospital, 
where,  after  lingering  seven  days,  he  died,  June  13th,  1849. 
At  his  last  hour,  he  received  the  consolations  of  the  Catholic 
religion,  although  he  had  not  for  a long  time  had  any  practi- 
cal relations  with  that  Church. 

Such  is  the  brief  record  of  the  life  of  one  who  most  assur- 
edly was  in  the  world,  but  not  of  it.  He  hardly  seems  like 
a human  creature,  so  weird,  forlorn,  and  miserable  is  the 
whole  story  of  his  existence.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he  was 
ever  raised  to  the  height  of  which  stronger  natures  are  capa- 
. ble,  even  in  the  factitious  heaven  of  opium,  or  was  more  than 
enveloped  in  a sort  of  Elfin  land,  where  it  is  not  day,  but 
merely  absence  of  night.  His  soul  appears  to  have  been 
without  the  knowledge  of  gladness,  as  flowers  are  white  that 
have  grown  up  in  a cellar  without  sunlight. 

With  a person  and  mind  so  constituted,  it  would,  of  course, 
be  in  vain  to  look  for  any  reflection  or  portraiture  of  national 
life  or  character  in  the  volume  before  us.  Mangan  was  in 
no  sense,  save  birth,  an  Irish  poet.  The  Burns,  the  Beran- 
ger,  the  Whittier  of  Ireland,  is  yet  to  appear.  Perhaps  the 
nearest  approach  at  present  is  Mr.  William  Allingham,  who  is 
almost  the  only  one  that  has  appreciated  the  deficiency,  or 
attempted  faithfully  to  represent  the  character  and  scenery 
of  Ireland  in  Irish  idiomatic  poetry.  Beyond  a doubt, 
“ Lovely  Mary  Donnelly  ” and  “ The  GirPs  Lamentation  ” are 
two  of  the  finest  lyrics  of  modern  times.  They  are  full  of 
local  coloring  and  national  idioms ; in  fact,  are  almost  cantos 
of  the  old  ballads,  “ Shule  Aroon,”  and  the  like.  But  these 
are  but  the  beginning  of  a promise,  which  we  hope  Mr. 
Allingham  may  live  to  fulfil,  to  rehabilitate  and  vivify  with 
new  life  the  fast-vanishing  minstrelsy  of  his  native  country ; 
to  gather,  polish,  and  string  together  the  pearls  into  a chaplet 
that  shall  adorn  the  fame  which  his  own  original  genius  has 
already  won.  He  may  be  proud  to  know,  that  his  songs  are 
printed  on  the  half-penny  broadsheet,  and  sold  and  sung  all 
over  his  country.  Thomas  Davis,  had  he  lived,  and  got  cured 
of  his  “ regeneration,”  would  probably  have  ripened  and 
sweetened  into  a truly  national  poet.  As  it  is,  — although  his 


1865.]  James  Clarence  Mangan . 205 

poems  contain  here  and  there  a scattered  u wood-note  wild,” 
amid  the  rumble  and  blaze  and  noise,  — he  died  too  soon  to  be 
entitled  to  an  enduring  fame  as  an  Irish  poet.  Gerald  Grif- 
fin’s verses,  though  sweet  and  tender,  are  at  best  feeble,  and 
too  much  tainted  with  the  “ Keepsake  ” and  “ Annual  ” style 
to  reach  the  heart  of  the  Irish  peasant.  John  Banim  has  left 
one  poem,  “ Soggarth  Aroon,”  which  would  alone  be  sufficient 
to  stamp  his  name  as  one  of  the  most  forcible  delineators  of 
Irish  life : it  is  full  of  power  and  pathos ; a literal  transcript 
of  truth  in  the  vividest  and  most  idiomatic  words.  His  other 
poems  are  'much  inferior.  Samuel  Ferguson,  author  of  that 
noble  ballad,  “ The  Forging  of  the  Anchor,”  which  made  such 
a sensation  years  ago,  and  seemed  to  give  announcement  of  a 
new  poet,  has  been  content  to  be  merely  a lawyer,  and  in- 
dulge in  literature  only  as  a recreation.  He  is  by  far  the 
best  translator  of  the  ancient  Irish  poetry.  His  poems  have 
been  collected  recently,  for  the  first  time,*  although  in 
over-fastidiousness  he  has  excluded  many ; and  we  can  sin- 
cerely recommend  their  perusal  to  all  lovers  of  poetry,  or 
students  of  Irish  character.  Lover  and  Lever  are  not  to  be 
named  as  Irish  poets.  Moore  is  also  out  of  the  question. 
Aubrey  De  Yere  is  cold  and  rhetorical.  Neither  are  any  of 
the  younger  fry  of  the  young  Ireland ers  worth  naming,  al- 
though there  is  occasionally  a piece  worthy  of  preservation, 
amid  the  rant  and  fustian  about  the  “ sunburst  ” and  “ phoe- 
nix,” and  other  strange  cattle.  In  respect  to  the  preserva- 
tion of  her  ancient  ballads  and  poetry,  as  in  many  another, 
Ireland  has  been  singularly  unfortunate : with  airs  of  the  most 
wild  and  plaintive  beauty,  equal,  and  in  many  respects  supe- 
rior, to  those  of  Scotland,  — every  one  of  which  undoubtedly 
had  words  attached,  — there  is  very  little  remaining  save  the 
music,  which  can  now  never  be  lost.  The  poetry,  which  was 
handed  down  from  mouth  to  mouth,  has  almost  entirely  per- 
ished, with  the  extinction  of  Erse  as  a dialect,  almost  in  our 
own  day.  The  few  scattered  fragments  that  have  been  pre- 


* Lays  of  the  Western  Gael,  and  other  Poems.  By  Samuel  Ferguson.  Bell 
& Daldy,  London.  1865. 

VOL.  LXXIX. — 5th  S.  VOL.  XVII.  NO.  II. 


18 


206 


James  Clarence  Mangan. 


[Sept. 


served,  even  in  the  clumsy  translation  that  most  ofithem  have 
received,  show  what  a treasure  has  been  irrecoverably  lost. 

Mangan  translated  a number  of  pieces  from  the  Erse,  prob- 
ably because  they  were  better  suited  to  the  demands  of  the 
Irish  market  at  that  time  than  the  German,  but  without  any 
of  heartiness  or  feeling  necessary  : singular  to  say,  he  did  not 
even  understand  the  language  that  he  ventured  to  transcribe, 
being  furnished  with  a literal  prose  translation  of  the  words, 
by  a friendly  co-laborer  in  the  library.  Mangan's  transla- 
tions, although  they  reflect  almost  literally  the  intensely  real- 
istic expressions  and  allegorical  repetitions  of  the  originals, 
are  almost  entirely  destitute  of  their  sweetness  and  tender 
pathos,  which  Ferguson  so  clearly  reproduces : they  are  too 
much  like  the  literal  versifying  of  a schoolboy's  task,  as  thus 
in  the  old  tale  of  “The  Forgotten  Wedding  Day,"  or  “ Rory 
and  Darborgilla : " — 

“ Know  ye  the  tale  of  the  Prince  of  Oriel, 

Of  Rory  last  of  his  line  of  Kings  ? 

I pen  it  here  as  a sad  memorial 

Of  how  much  woe  reckless  folly  brings.” 

But  hear  ye  further ! When  Cairtre’s  daughter 
Saw  what  a fate  had  o’ertaen  her  Brave, 

Her  eyes  became  as  twin  founts  of  water, 

Her  heart  again  as  a darker  grave.” 

This  is  scarcely  an  improvement  on  the  literal  prose  transla- 
tion. How  differently  Ferguson  would  have  mellowed  the 
sad  sweetness  of  the  original  into  his  numbers  may  be  seen 
in  the  “ Lament  of  Deirdre  for  the  Sons  of  Usnach."  Or  per- 
haps the  best  example  of  the  difference  in  their  styles  might 
be  “ The  Fair  Hills  of  Ireland,"  which  was  translated  by  both. 

But,  passing  by  these  as  unworthy  of  the  skill  and  taste  of 
the  translator,  and  the  spirit  of  his  subjects,  we  come  to  the 
translations  of  the  German,  which  form  the  bulk  of  the  volume. 
These  again  are  very  unequal,  as  was  to  have  been  expected 
from  so  much  task-work ; but  among  them  are  some  of  the 
finest  gems  of  poetry,  that  seem  to  have  almost  received 
additional  lustre  from  their  setting  in  a new  language.  The 


1865.]  James  Clarence  Mangan.  207 

very  measure  and  melody  of  Ludwig  Tieck’s  u Herbstlied 11 
are  thus  marvellously  transferred  : — 

“ A little  bird  flew  through  the  dell ; 

And,  where  the  failing  sunbeams  fell, 

He  warbled  thus  his  wondrous  lay  : 

‘ Adieu  ! adieu ! I go  away  : 

Far,  far 

Must  I voyage  ere  the  twilight  star.' 

It  pierced  me  through,  the  song  he  sang, 

With  many  a sweet  and  bitter  pang  : 

For  wounding  joy,  delicious  pain, 

My  bosom  swelled  and  sank  again. 

Heart ! heart ! 

Is  it  drunk  with  bliss  or  woe  thou  art  ? 

Then,  when  I saw  the  drifted  leaves, 

I said,  ‘ Already  Autumn  grieves.’ 

To  sunnier  skies  the  swallow  hies  : 

So  Love  departs  and  Longing  flies, 

Far,  far 

Where  the  Radiant  and  the  Beauteous  are. 

But  soon  the  sun  shone  out  anew,  • 

And  back  the  little  flutterer  flew  : 

He  saw  my  grief,  he  saw  my  tears, 

And  sang,  ‘Love  knows  no  Winter  years.’ 

No ! no ! 

While  it  lives,  its  breath  is  Summer’s  glow ! ” 


The  translations  include  specimens  from  the  whole  range 
of  modern  German  poetry,  with  one  exception  and  a singular 
one,  — that  of  Heine,  none  of  whose  poems  appear:  yet  it 
would  seem,  that  the  melancholy  madness,  and  despairing, 
bitter  mirth  of  his  lyrical  drops  of  gall,  would  have  been  in 
perfect  unison  with  the  spirit  of  Mangan.  Perhaps  their 
highly  concentrated  essence  and  perfect  finish  deterred,  or 
their  edges,  too  sharp  for  his  own  heart,  forbade  them  to  be 
meddled  with  in  the  way  of  task-work.  Not  only  do  we  find 
here  the  higher  names  in  German  poetry,  but  some  that  do  not 
rank  above  the  common  herd  in  their  own  country ; as,  for 
instance,  many  of  “ raw-head-and-bloody-bones  ” sentimentali- 
ties of  the  once  popular  Swabian  school  of  minor  poetry, — Dr. 
J ustinus  Kerner  and  the  like,  representing  the  “ Mysteries  of 


208  James  Clarence  Mangan.  [Sept. 

Udolpho  ” and  “ Castle  Spectre  ” school  of  English  literature. 
These,  in  many  instances,  are  so  transfigured  and  beautified, 
that  the  original  authors  would  find  it  difficult  to  recognize 
their  offspring.  In  fact,  Mangan  by  no  means  considered 
himself  bound  to  give  a literal  version  in  cases  like  these, 
often  changing  the  whole  structure,  melody,  and  purport  of 
his  subject ; so  that  little  remained  save  the  title,  or  interpo- 
lating his  own  fancies,  when  and  where  he  pleased : this, 
which  would  be  sacrilege  in  the  case  of  Goethe  and  Schiller, 
is  easily  pardoned  as  regards  the  works  of  authors  that  have 
been  justly  consigned  to  almost  total  oblivion.  The  following 
little  gem,  from  Kerner,  deserves  the  credit  of  an  original 
poem : — 


THE  POET’S  CONSOLATION. 

“ What  though  no  maiden’s  tears  ever  be  shed 
O’er  my  clay  bed, 

Yet  will  the  generous  Night  never  refuse 
To  weep  its  dews. 

And  though  no  friendly  hand  garland  the  cross 
Above  my  moss, 

Still  will  the  dear,  dear  moon  tenderly  shine 
Down  on  that  sign. 

And  if  the  saunterer  by  songlessly  pass 
Through  the  long  grass, 

There  will  the  noontide  bee  pleasantly  hum, 

And  the  warm  winds  come. 

Yes  — you  at  least,  ye  dells,  meadows,  and  streams, 

Stars  and  moonbeams, 

Will  think  on  him  whose  weak,  meritless  lays 
Teemed  with  your  praise.” 

That  he  understood  the  true  value  of  such  maudlin  sentiment- 
alists may  be  seen  by  an  extract  from  one  of  his  own  poems, 
to  which  it  is  time  we  now  turned : — 

“ Did  I paint  a fifth  of  what  I feel, 

Oh,  how  plaintive  you  would  ween  I was ! 

But  I won’t,  albeit  I have  a deal 

More  to  wail  about  than  Kerner  has ! 


1865.] 


209 


James  Clarence  Mangan . 

Kerner’s  tears  are  wept  for  withered  flowers, 

Mine  for  withered  hopes  : my  scroll  of  woe 
Dates,  alas  ! from  youth’s  deserted  bowers 
Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 

Yet  may  Deutschland’s  bardlings  flourish  long ! 

Me,  I tweak  no  beak  among  them ; hawks 
Must  not  pounce  on  hawks  : besides  in  song 
I could  once  beat  all  of  them  by  chalks. 

Though  you  find  me,  as  I near  my  goal, 

Sentimentalizing  like  Rousseau, 

Oh,  I had  a grand  Byronian  soul 
Twenty  golden  years  ago  ! 

Tick-tick,  tick-tick ! — not  a sound  save  Time’s, 

And  the  wind-gust  as  it  drives  the  rain : 

Tortured  torturer  of  reluctant  rhymes , 

Go  to  bed,  and  rest  thy  aching  brain  ! 

Sleep  no  more  the  dupe  of  hope  and  schemes ; 

Soon  thou  sleepest  where  the  thistles  blow  : 

Curious  anticlimax  to  thy  dreams 
Twenty  golden  years  ago.” 

The  translations  included  in  the  volume  under  the  head  of 
Persian,  Ottoman,  Coptic,  are  undoubtedly  his  own.  On  .one 
occasion,  being  asked  how  he  could  credit  such  gems  to 
Hafiz,  replied  that  Hafiz  paid  better  than  Mangan,  and  that 
any  one  could  see  that  they  were  only  half  his.  His  profes- 
sedly original  poems  are  very  few  in  number,  comprising  less 
than  thirty  pages  of  this  volume ; but  in  them  he  poured  out 
his  soul  as  man  has  seldom  done,  and  on  them  must  his  claim 
to  be  considered  a poet  rest.  It  must  not  be  forgotten  in  the 
contemplation  of  these,  that  the  man  was  a wreck,  body  and 
mind,  a once  stout-built  argosy,  but  utterly  and  hopelessly 
wrecked;  that  he  pursued  poetry,  — translating  we  mean, — 
which  gave  him  command  of  rhyme,  only  as  a means  of  bread. 
These  are  not  the  theatrical  morbidezza  of  a Byron  or  a Poe, 
but,  like  the  lamentations  of  the  lonely  Job,  only  the  irrepres- 
sible moans  of  his  own  soul.  He  reports  the  horrors  and 
visions  that  lie  in  the  world  of  his  experience  of  sorrow,  with 
a realistic  intenseness  of  expression  that  Browning  could 
alone  rival,  with  a wonderful  skill  of  melody,  and  capricious 
variety  of  rhyme,  peculiar  to  himself,  and  occasionally  flashing 
into  an  expression  of  living  fire,  as  of  the  hypocrites,  who  — 

18* 


210 


[Sept. 


James  Clarence  Mangan, 

“ Would  look  in  God’s  face 
With  a lie  in  their  eyes.” 

A specimen,  by  no  means  the  best,  but  characteristic  in 
every  point,  will  give  a better  idea  of  the  qualities  of  his 
poetry  than  the  most  labored  analysis,  and  also  serve  as  an 
autobiography  of  the  life,  which  we  have  endeavored  to 
sketch.  It  is  entitled  u The  Nameless  One ; ” and  with  it  we 
shall  close  our  brief  record. 

“ Roll  forth,  my  song,  like  the  rolling  river 
That  sweeps  along  to  the  mighty  sea : 

God  will  inspire  me  while  I deliver 
My  soul  of  thee  ! 

Tell  thou  the  world,  when  my  bones  lie  whitening 
Amid  the  last  homes  of  youth  and  eld, 

That  there  was  one  once,  whose  veins  ran  lightning 
No  eye  beheld. 

Tell  how  his  boyhood  was  one  drear  night-hour ; 

How  shone  for  him,  through  his  griefs  and  gloom, 

No  star  of  all,  Heaven  sends  to  light  our 
Path  to  the  tomb. 

Roll  on,  my  song ; and  to  after-ages 
Tell  how,  disdaining  all  earth  can  give, 

He  would  have  taught  men,  from  Wisdom’s  pages, 

The  way  to  live. 

And  tell  how,  trampled,  derided,  hated, 

And  worn  by  weakness,  disease,  and  wrong, 

He  fled  for  shelter  to  God,  who  mated 
His  soul  with  song  : 

With  song  which  alway,  sublime  or  vapid, 

Flowed  like  a rill  in  the  morning  beam ; 

Perchance  not  deep,  but  intense  and  rapid,  — 

A mountain  stream. 

Tell  how  this  Nameless,  condemned  for  years  long 
To  herd  with  demons  from  hell  beneath, 

Saw  things  that  made  him,  with  groans  and  tears,  long 
For  even  death. 

Go  on  to  tell  how,  with  genius  wasted, 

Betrayed  in  friendship,  befooled  in  love, 

With  spirit  shipwrecked,  and  young  hopes  blasted, 

He  still,  still  strove ; 

Till,  spent  with  toil,  dreeing  death  for  others, 

And  some  whose  hands  should  have  wrought  for  him 
(If  children  live  not  for  sires  and  mothers), 

His  mind  grew  dim. 


1865.] 


Radicalism  and  Conservatism. 


211 


And  lie  fell  far  through  that  pit  abysmal, 

The  gulf  and  grave  of  Maguire  and  Burns, 

And  pawned  his  soul  for  the  devil’s  dismal 
Stock  of  returns : 

And  yet  redeemed  it  in  days  of  darkness, 

And  shapes  and  signs  of  the  final  wrath ; 

When  Death,  in  hideous  and  ghastly  starkness, 

Stood  on  his  path. 

And  tell  how  now,  amid  reck  and  sorrow 
And  want  and  sickness  and  houseless  nights, 

He  bides  in  calmness  the  silent  morrow, 

That  no  ray  lights. 

And  lives  he  still  then  1 Yes  ! Old  and  hoary 
At  thirty-nine,  from  despair  and  woe, 

He  lives,  enduring  what  future  story 

Will  never  know.  \ 

Him  grant  a grave  to,  ye  pitying  noble, 

Deep  in  your  bosoms  ! There  let  him  dwell ! 

He,  too,  had  tears  for  all  souls  in  trouble, 

Here  and  in  hell.” 


Art.  IV.  — RADICALISM  AND  CONSERVATISM. 

An  AddressAto  the  Graduating  ClLjytu  the  Can-bridge  Di  j#y  School , 
delivered  July  18£#J  By  Orvill^  Dewey, 


' JProve  all  things  /"hold  fast  that  which  is  goo* 


i04”  — 


I . 

t&pic 


RADi^ALiSM^.afn^  (/onservatfsm : these  topics  are 
indicated *by  the  jtext,  and 
coujfsA  this  evenjng. 

AfProve  all  tjiings.”  Ijnat^,  analyzp,  assay  the 


te  bottom,  to  \ the  foots,  on  things; 
le^  ; go  to  the  foundations  of  truth  : do 
ft  what  is  propounded 


fficiently 
my  dis- 


as  men 
words, 


3o  'Coin,  to  se^  whether  mms  pure  gc$d. 
search  all  things  ; go  tg, 
go  down  to  fir^st 

not  take  things  upob  trudft ; do  not  acc 
to  you,  whether  from  pulpit  or  professors  Jchair,  simply  because 
it  is  propounded : but  understand;  know,  prove  things  to  be 
true  for  yourselves : that  is  Radicalism.  But,  having  reached 


212 


Radicalism  and  Conservatism. 


[Sept. 


the  best  conclusion  you  can,  having  found  what  is  good,  keep, 
conserve,  hold  fast  to  it;  keep  an  unswerving  loyalty  to  it, — 
to  the  sovereignty  of  your  convictions,  to  the  right  principle, 
in  conduct,  to  the  good  law  in  society ; hold  on  to  it  with  a 
firm  hand : that  is  Conservatism. 

This  distinction  marks  two  characters  or  tendencies  of 
mind  ; and,  I think,  of  all  minds.  The  one  inquires,  the  other 
accepts.  The  one  says,  Why  ? Why  this  dogma,  custom,  law, 
institution,  method  of  education,  method  of  religious  culture? 
It  is  not  enough  that  it  finds  things  taught,  enjoined,  ordained : 
it  goes  behind  all  that,  and  asks  for  the  reasons  and  grounds  of 
them.  The  other  takes  things  as  it  finds  them,  and  thinks 
of  nothing  but  using  and  supporting  them.  The  same  differ- 
ence may  be  seen  in  children  : the  parent  knows  it.  Some 
are  always  asking  questions,  asking  for  reasons.  They  say, 
Why  is  this,  or  that?  why  must  I do,  or  not  do,  this  or  that? 
I think  it  is  natural  to  all  children’s  minds  to  do  so,  though  in 
some  it  is  more  marked  than  in  others.  But,  if  the  disposition 
is  repelled,  the  want  unsatisfied ; if,  to  the  perpetual  “ Why  ? ’’ 
the  answer  is,  “ Because  it  is  so,”  or,  “ Because  you  must,” 
then  you  are  likely  soon  to  have  before  you  a conservative 
little  child,  — not  the  most  promising  form  of  character  for 
the  future.  And  yet,  I think  it  is  the  character  of  most  men. 

But  in  speaking  of  grown-up  men,  in  speaking  of  sects  and 
parties,  it  would  be  unfair  to  apply  the  words  “ Radical  ” and 
“ Conservative,”  in  the  extreme  sense.  This  is  often  done, 
because  men’s  opponents  describe  and  denominate  them, — not 
they  themselves.  It  is  singular,  that  the  word  “ Radical,” 
which,  according  to  etymology,  ought  to  mean  simply  going 
down  to  the  roots  of  things,  and  therefore  the  most  deep- 
founded  principle,  has  come  to  mean  the  tearing-up  of  things 
by  the  roots.  And  because  it  is  thus,  the  Conservative  repre- 
sents his  opponent  as  a rash,  reckless,  unscrupulous  innovator. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  Radical  retorts  by  defining  the  Con- 
servative as  a timid,  selfish,  obstinate  defender  of  every  thing 
old  and  established,  — the  enemy  of  all  progress.  “ Fanatic  ” 
and  “fogy”  are  the  terms  they  apply  to  one  another.  Now,  if 
this  is  right  on  one  side,  it  is  right  on  the  other.  But  both 


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